Letters to Nowhere
by Ambrel
Summary: He writes to her, letters that may never be read. She gives him such a profound gift, though asks nothing in return. The written word says what he cannot bring himself to express. Vignettes surrounding Fenris's journey to literacy.
1. The Question

(Note: I am still working on The Danger of Touch, I promise. But since I was doing this fill for the DA Kink Meme, this story started to generate a life of its own and now has a grip on my mind. I figured people would like to read it here.

This fic will be borrowing from the great poet Pablo Neruda. In fact, all the chapter names will be coming from his works.

Rating subject to change, but I don't think anything explicit will happen in this one.)

* * *

><p>Letters to Nowhere<p>

By Ambrel

"The Question"

* * *

><p>The pen felt heavy in his hand. His fingers, so used to gripping the braided hilt of his claymore, slipped clumsily around the length of the writing utensil like it was a fish he'd pulled from its watery home. Purple-black stains had already spread on his hands and on the table, across the scraps of parchment and some on the floor beside the chair in which he sat. Calluses from years of martial work meant nothing to the small, dexterous world of the pen.<p>

It was awkward. It made him feel inadequate, that pen. It held silent witness over his many, many mistakes. It judged his progress and in his mind, found him wanting. The length of feather – quail, from the coloring – was frail. But how it judged, how it read his stuttering marks upon the page with the weight of a proving master, intent on exploiting the weakness of his student.

Weak.

It was a small thing. Delicate, like a slender river reed or a flower's stem and he feared he would break it in two. His efforts were shaky, white-knuckled with concentration, and riddled with errors that were calmly corrected by the woman who sat in the chair across from him. Her voice never wavered, never jeered, never laughed. She undertook this self-appointed mission with the same sense of gravity as she did when reviewing tactics or choosing marks. Her mind had been set from the beginning with the words she had said: "You will learn to read. It is part of being free."

How could he refuse?

And so he found himself here, in front of a comfortable fire. It hadn't taken long to learn the basics of the alphabet. She'd written the formerly mystifying sigils in a neat line across a parchment for him, followed by a small drawing of something to represent that letter. An apple for 'A', a bow for 'B', and so on. He'd graduated from rounding out the shapes of each letter to monosyllabic words. From there he learned how certain letters interacted to make sounds that made absolutely no sense. Small phrases, then simple sentences.

Before he knew it, he was learning to see the language in a completely different way. Parts of speech. Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives. How they all worked together. These were skills that, in the spoken language, he had used and understood intuitively. It forced his mind into an unnatural shape when he realized that there were more dimensions to the concept than he could have ever guessed. Nuances were numerous and almost without end. With each new skill and every small triumph, he was reminded of how much more there was to know. And he was certain that he might never know it all, and inexplicably, the thought saddened him as much as it spurred his progress.

In short, Fenris was well on his way to becoming a lover of the written word, no matter how it vexed his pride.

He'd never anticipated the growing pains – cramps in the small muscles of his hand that ached like a bruise. Sharp quills that stabbed pinpricks into his unsuspecting hands. Headaches that came with squinting in candlelight. A crick in his neck from leaning over his work in one position too long.

Fenris raised a hand to his neck to rub away some of the tightness that had settled there. Hawke's eyes followed his movement and she leaned back in her chair. "I think that's enough for tonight."

The elf frowned, but obediently began to gather the scribbled papers together, blowing on the ink to dry it. He folded them with the utmost care before securing them in one of his belt pouches. When he straightened to thank Hawke for yet another lesson, he found himself face to face with a thick sheaf of papers bound together with a length of twine. He raised a brow and looked at her in askance.

"Here," she said with a smile, "It's for you. I remember back when papa was teaching me. It was always easier to practice on my own when Bethany and Carver were out playing. I was thinking that maybe you could do some practice on your own if you get too bored in your mansion by yourself."

"What would I write?" He asked. He had no stories to tell, or at least, none that he would like to share.

"Anything. That's the best part about a blank paper. It can become anything." The woman replied. "Take me, for instance. I write in a journal each day. Sometimes it helps clear my mind. You could do something similar. Or if you want, I can come up with some sort of project for you after each lesson."

Fenris regarded the papers with an appraising stare. "Perhaps."

She handed him a few spare bottles of ink, four fresh quills, and a small wooden box to keep the papers in. "You can use a needle and twine to bind them if they get too disorganized to handle," she said as an afterthought. "And let me know if you need anything else. I always have extra writing materials laying around."

A nod and a short walk later, Fenris found himself at his doorstep, pulling at the doorknob with one hand while trying to balance the box of paper in the other. It only took a few moments to fumble the door open, but in that time he caught himself staring at a series of letters and numbers that he'd not noticed above the door frame before. He squinted, turning his head a little to the left as his lips moved. It was a painstaking process that took longer than it should have, sounding out those semi-familiar letters. "Ten…sixteen. Su…suppli…ent? No, Sup-pli-cant…supplicant. Supplicant's..re. R..e..s..t. Rest. Supplicant's Rest." His brow furrowed. How fitting an address for the living place of a former slave. And how ironic for Denarius, who had occupied this place before him.

He went inside.

There was a desk in his room. It was large, too heavy to move closer to the fire by himself, but there was no shortage of candles in the abandoned bones of the house. It didn't take him long to hunt up a couple of fat pillar candles and set light to them. Then, dragging a comfortable chair to where he had arranged his workstation, he pulled out each item from Hawke in turn, laying them out on the tabletop to examine them. A thrill of excitement rippled up his spine. He had these things and they were his. There was a novel feeling to the idea of being able to write and read and in truth, he hadn't had enough yet. His fingers itched to hold the quill for reasons he couldn't pin down, despite the feelings of inadequacy that it imparted to him.

What to write?

There was no sense in writing about his day, really. It was a day of little consequence. The most eventful thing that had occurred was his meeting with Hawke, and there was not much to speak of there. Like any lesson, it served the purpose of enhancing a new skill.

Any stories he may have known were either already well known here or they were of the sort that he did not care to share. And if he were to engage his trademark honesty with himself, he was not yet equipped to record any stories. His grasp of the written word, while beginning on a good foundation, was still lacking in eloquence.

Fenris sat mulling over this conundrum, tapping his lower lip with the feathered edge of a quill, when the answer came forth, unbidden yet clear.

What did he watch Denarius do every day that he stood guard at his shoulder? Scribble letters. Missives to apprentices, messages to partners, letters to contacts the maker only knew where. Fenris could write letters. Letters did not have to be long, overdrawn affairs like stories. They could be short and succinct. They could be conversational or formal.

"Perfect," he murmured to himself, sitting. "But who to write?"

His circle of acquaintances was not large. Not Isabela. He'd nothing much to say to her as he'd yet to sound her out. Sebastian was too well-meaning. Varric needed no further ammo and he wasn't sure Merrill had yet learned the art of writing in anything but Dalish symbols. Anders was out – except, perhaps, when Fenris worked his way up to a finesse that would leave the man speechless with rage after the first sentence. Aveline was busy and ambivalent. He had nothing to say to her.

That left one person, then. Hawke, the one who pointed him this way to begin with.

He lifted the pen, dipped it in the ink, and wrote carefully on the first sheet of paper.

_Hawke._

_Thank you for yor help. I will try to rite ech day to hon my skells._

_Fenris_

Simple. Full of errors. It took him far too long to write even that small amount of words and the crick in his neck was threatening to come back. He eyed the paper critically before breathing the ink dry. "It shall have to do. Small steps." He reminded himself, putting the paper into the bottom of the box, folded up over itself, before closing the box itself.


	2. Your Hands

(Note - The chapters, by the nature of the Kink Meme fills, may be short. This one is only about 1200 words, opposed to my usual of 3000 per chapter. Still, I think the stilted nature of letters will lend itself to this format.

Just a forwarning - I will be using my limited and rusty German skills (and by skills I mean, using a language I have not spoken in more than twenty years) in place of Arcanum in the idea that making a fool of myself with a language I am modestly knowledgeable with will be better than playing with Latin, a language I have absolutely no clue of. Now, here's the thing. According to my hits counter, I know I have some FF users from Germany reading my fic. Would anyone be willing to proof the few lines I will be using in German for me? If so, shoot me a message. And you will win the internets for life!)

* * *

><p>Letters to Nowhere<p>

By Ambrel

"Your Hands"

* * *

><p>Days passed with all the hurry of a contented cat in a sunbeam. Fenris found himself at a loss in times like these when he was left behind for missions that required a bit more diplomacy and a bit less muscle. It had been more than a few weeks since his last lesson.<p>

Hawke had not only been contracted by several people at once, but each person was convinced that their problem required immediate attention. He'd not paid attention to the details when Hawke was discussing the missions at the Hanged Man after their weekly card game. Instead, he found himself staring at the table where some bygone drunkard had scored the wood with a dull blade. Never before had he noticed the marks that populated the tables here in any way other than flavor for the rough bar. It was almost a shock to imagine that they were words. Letters, ill-formed and barely legible, scrawled in a crooked line beneath his index finger. _J…u…l..i…a… I… L…o…v…e…_

He turned his eyes away with a short wave of embarrassment. It seemed almost voyeuristic to read a message like that. Thoughts were private things, in Fenris's opinion, and should be guarded closely. What would possess a man – or woman, for that matter – to expose his innermost mind to the scrutiny of others? Some of the thoughts that went through his mind were frightening. Some were angry. Most, actually.

Some would shame him.

The idea that the contents of his mind, once written and committed to paper, could be seen by all and sundry was a disturbing concept.

He glanced up as the informal meeting was adjourned. Several of the group were already making their way to the door save for Varric, Merrill, and Isabela. The group she'd chosen for these missions, apparently. Fenris stood to leave, unable to keep the pads of his fingers from rasping over the score marks on the table.

Back at home, he found himself pacing a row in the floor before the fireplace. Contemplating several days of boredom made him feel restless.

The paper was in the box on his desk and because of the early hour of the day, there was a square of sunshine directly over the writing area. The light caught the glass ink bottle, drawing his eye.

Perhaps boredom was not the word. A few free days would give him some time to practice his newfound abilities with the paper and the ink. Two long strides brought him to the box. He began riffling through the papers and a folded sheet he hadn't before notice slipped out, tumbling to the desk. He paused, staring at it.

It was the same thick paper that Hawke had given to him the night prior. The difference was in the handwriting that adorned the outside. It was written in an elegant, looping script that began and ended with a flourish. He had to study it for several moments before the lines became letters to his eyes. Then he arched a brow. It was his name.

Curiosity piqued, he opened the parchment. Inside was more of the writing done in the same hand, though without the flourishes that made it hard to read.

_It will be several days before we can continue your lessons. If you wish to continue while I am away, I've instructed Bodahn to allow you access to the manor for whatever you might need. The paper is in my desk. Extra ink in the pantry on the top shelf._

_I've set aside a few books that you might find interesting. They are on the mantle. I look forward to our lessons when I return, in two weeks time._

_-Hawke_

Fenris's lips curled into what may have been a smile, was anyone there to witness it. Below the note were terms that Hawke knew he'd been having some difficulty mastering. iEnough. Thought. Though. Whisper. Touch. Faith. Beauty. Peace./i

The light had begun to move in the minutes he spent deciphering the letters on the page. He sat and took up the pen.

_Hawke_

_Yor words ar a comfert to me. Few wood xtend ker to such as I, yet you did. I wundr at yor kindness._

_I hop for yor safte in te cuming days. Fite well._

He frowned at the wide, uneven scrawl that his pen left behind.

The letters were little better than what a child might offer. He likened it to the first wavering efforts of a young slave he'd seen. At the bare age of six, the boy had been turned over to the barracks and had a sword thrust into his hands. He'd lifted it, held it, but only just. Each movement was sloppy, earning fierce rebuke…

Fenris shook himself before he could get lost in the memory. Instead, he focused once more on the paper. Slowly, deliberately, he began tracing letters below his message.

_Enough_

_Thought_

_Though…_

"Your progress is remarkable," Hawke murmured, looking over his latest collection of scribbles. "Just a few weeks ago you were having problems with simple sentences. I only see a few mistakes now. You are a quick study, Fenris."

"I have much left to learn."

"As do we all," she said with a smile, "As do we all. Here, I found this the other day when I was going through some books in the library. It made me think of you." She held a thin, leatherbound book out to him.

He took it automatically. The cover was ridged and heavy in his hands, lined with a decorative border that harkened back to the Tevinter Imperium. Embossed across the cover was the title, standing out in gold leaf. He couldn't suppress a smile once he'd made out the title. "Interesting. Tevinter, I see."

Hawke looked pleased. "I thought so. I can't read Arcanum, but since we share an alphabet, I was sure you probably could. I hope it isn't too difficult. Most of the words I made out… well, I could barely pronounce them."

Fenris flipped the book open, glancing through a few of the pages. "It… doesn't look too bad." He said. "I appreciate the thought, Hawke." The book was small enough to slip into his belt pouch, and in it went.

"Good. Perhaps when you read it, you might translate some of it? I can't lie. I'm terribly curious."

"Ah… yes." He said, concealing a wry grin. "I _could_ be persuaded, at that. It should be an interesting read, if anything. I think I might work on it tonight if I can find the time."

She pressed a few loaves of fresh baked bread into his hands before he left, the echoes of farewells from Leandra and the dwarves following him out.


	3. Leave Me A Place Underground

Note: Hi again! Sorry for the hiatus. Work keeps demanding my attention, and it DOES pay the bills.

Big, huge, enormous thanks to Munyas and Boo Points – I Punch for rescuing the German bits that are standing in for Tevinter. All of the 'Tevinter' parts are reiterated in English in the text, but let me know if you miss it and would like me to send you the English lines.

Also, I have had a lot of favs, alerts, and reviews. While I normally reply to each and every one, I have been terribly busy with work related things of late (such is the life of the military) and have been a bit hard-pressed for time. Please know that I treasure your thoughts should you wish to share them with me. I love concrit more than anything and it gives me motivation to continue this story.

Without further ado:

* * *

><p>Letters to Nowhere<p>

By Ambrel

"Leave Me A Place Underground"

* * *

><p>Ironic, really.<p>

There was no way Hawke could have known what she'd handed him when she thrust the book into his hands. A book of poetry. Simple, yet at the same time, complex. He'd heard the name before. He'd even heard some of the poetry recited by the bards who had sometimes passed through Denarius's court. In the twisting words of Arcanum, the poems were beautiful in a raw, agonizing way. They were the words of a man, so stricken by passion, that he could not contain the emotion within him and had unleashed these words of beauty upon the world.

Fenris opened the book to the first page and trailed his inkstained fingers across the words that comprised the forward.

_Für meine geliebte Alexia. Mögen deine Reisen sicher sein, wo auch immer sie dich hinführen. Wisse, dass ich für immer warten werde. Mein Herz, für dich_

"To my love, Alexia. May your travels be safe, wherever you choose to go. Know that I will wait forever. My heart, to yours." He murmured. That flash of embarrassment that flashed through him was familiar. Reading someone's private thoughts was unnerving when they ran so close to the visceral heart.

Beneath the forward was the title. _Liebe Gedichte_.

Love poems.

He shook his head, placing the book in the box and taking out another paper.

_Hawke_

_My lesons are emproving my skill and it is all thanks to you. You put me into stranj plases wit your gifts._

_A book of Teventr love powems?_

_Perhaps I will rite them down in Feredin for you. I shood like to see yor imberesment wen you relis wat you gav me._

_Fenris_

* * *

><p>It was not easy, even with the sheet of words he had ready at his side. Why must the makers of the written word insist on letters changing their sound when a perfectly good letter already existed for that purpose? Why were there 'o's and 'u's stuffed into every available spot, when they didn't seem to serve any true use?<p>

It had taken several weeks to get Hawke's help with some of the words. Not that she wouldn't have wanted to assist. Fenris just didn't want her to catch on to what he was doing. Besides, most of the words were common. If she noticed the increased frequency of his inquiries, she didn't remark upon it except to say that she was thrilled he was enthusiastic. His spelling _was _ improving.

He'd gathered his assorted lists of correctly spelled phrases together and began the laborious task of copying the words of the great poet Neruda in the common tongue. It was harder than he thought, made even more difficult by the nature of the poetry. Neruda, if one believed the legends, led a life that was fodder for the greatest love stories in the world. Several hours of work had gone into the six short lines that spidered unevenly across the parchment before him. Much of the time, he found himself puzzling over the proper tense and form of the words he was trying to bend to his will. When the technical parts of writing receded from being the foremost annoyance, he was left humbled and disturbed by the visceral thought that lay bare on the pages instead of safely tucked away into its creator's head.

_I can write the saddest lines tonight._

_Write for example: 'The night is fractured_  
><em>and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance'<em>

_The night wind turns in the sky and sings._  
><em>I can write the saddest lines tonight.<em>  
><em>I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.<em>

He stopped then, staring at the lines. These words were beautiful. He'd heard recitals that brought their audiences to tears. This man who had lived lifetimes ago, long before the Dragon Age had been thought of, had poured his heart into his craft. Somehow, though, reading these thoughts that were so full of earnest feeling made him want to avert his eyes with discomfort. Listening to a performance was one thing, but pulling the thoughts from paper of his own volition was another thing entirely.

The quill hung limp in his left hand and the rest of the poem was there in the book, taunting him with its emotion. With a frown, he set the translated passage aside, disturbed but unable to find the cause for it.

A fresh paper crinkled beneath his hands.

_Hawke._

_What drivs men to write there words on paper? It only invits a violachon of thought that can destroy far esier than creat._

_Is reading a poem an invajon or simpel intertanmint?_

_I am not sertan._

"_I loved her, sometimes she loved me too."_

_Were I to say such about any-won, woud I wish it nown to all and sundry?_

_Still. The words ar beautiful. There is much to be sed of heering them spoken, vis reeding them. I almost wish they were not in Arcanum so I do not fas the posichin of being the only won that can unlok the meening for you. I would send you to Varik or Isabela to heer them or maybe not even no you had them. Neruda was a man of feeling. Too much feeling lies in his words for me to be comfertibl relating his jeenyus to you._

_I do not no why._

_Fenris_

"Irony." He murmured. The parchment was filled with ink blotches, errant scrawls, and fingerprints. Never had he written so much without a pause. His supply of ink was beginning to run low and he had not gotten around to asking Hawke for more. As the lettering dried, he stared out the window. Light fled over the rooftops of the surrounding buildings as the sun returned to its nighttime home.

"What was that?"

Fenris jumped, his hand convulsing over the paper. It crinkled into a lopsided ball, bits of the parchment peeking out from his fists. For a split second, he stared down at his fist in horror before jerking his hand into his lap. Gathering his normal air of indifference around himself, he turned to look at Hawke over his shoulder, meeting her expectant eyes. "Hawke. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She gave him her lopsided grin. In the crook of her arm she carried a small leather bag and her other hand clutched an aromatic basket. "I haven't been by in a while. I figured it wasn't fair to keep making you walk all the way to my place for these lessons, either. So I decided to surprise you."

The elf allowed a tight smile to grace his features, trying his best to keep from making the crumpled paper in his hand any more conspicuous under her gaze. "It's hardly a lengthy walk."

"Principle of the thing." She said, as though it explained everything. She pulled up a chair to the table, knocked some of the dust from the seat, and sat down beside him.

While she arranged herself in the chair, Fenris surreptitiously dropped the balled up letter into the box of writing supplies. It rolled into the corner, opposite the sheaf of paper and quills that were scattered about. It seemed to regard him accusingly, unfurling a bit with the sound of slipping paper.

"What's that?" Hawke asked, jabbing a finger at the traitorous note. She grinned before he could say anything. "So that's how you're improving so fast! It's a practice paper! You're doing a lot of practice on your own, aren't you?"

"Ah, yes." He said, faint relief coloring his voice. She didn't seem inclined to pick the thing up and look through it. "I am. This is a most interesting pastime, Hawke. It saddens me to imagine all the time I have lost."

"It hardly shows, now, Fenris." She replied. "Your reading is coming along so well that I can hardly tell you are reciting from a page half the time. "

"Your flattery is a bit premature, I think." He pulled a sheet of paper from the box before sliding the lid shut. "I still stumble over words most children have no problems reading. For instance, the way the word 'little' is written confounds me. Why two 't's? Why the 'e' at the end? It does nothing. It has no reason to exist in that word, according to the rules you taught."

Hawke smiled. "Welcome to the wonderful world of the perversity of language, my dear. The powers that be have decided that our words have rules, except when they don't, and we are supposed to intuitively know when that happens."

Fenris readied a pen with ink and then rested his chin in his free hand. He eyed her, sidelong, with a ghost of a smile touching his eyes. "Far be it from me to insist on blind devotion. But how does one know when to stray from the beaten path?"

The woman's features flushed. "Oh, uh. Well, it's something we all learn as we go, really." She looked away, uncomfortable. One hand twirled a lock of hair as she cast about for something else to focus on. The elf felt his stomach clench in an unfamiliar manner when she reached out suddenly, snagging the book of poetry that she had given him only a few weeks before. "Oh look, it's that book. Have you been able to make anything of it?"

"Er. Well," Fenris dithered, cringing inwardly. The partially translated poem was only a few inches away from her hand. It hid in plain sight amongst the mess of papers that had accumulated on his desk and she hadn't seen it yet. "I've looked through it. Translating it will be difficult. I've managed to read many of the…uh…" he trailed off.

She flipped the book open to a random page. "It's poetry, right?"

He nodded with a grunt.

"I've heard Tevinter poetry is very musical. Considered second only to the creations of the Antivans. What are these poems from? A play, perhaps?"

"Well, after a sense," he replied. "Some of the passages have been used in plays before. But while they are written in Arcanum, the author was actually raised in Antiva before he settled in Tevinter. He is widely considered one of the greatest minds in literature, if you believe the self-appointed critics."

"Oh? Who is it?" She asked, trailing a finger down one of the pages. "I wonder if I've heard of him."

"Neruda." Fenris said.

She cocked her head. "Hmm. No. Can't say I have." She shrugged, pushing the book in front of him.

It was open to a relatively short passage. "Überlass mir einen Ort unter Tage," he said once he had taken a moment to puzzle out the letters.

Hawke pulled her legs to her chest to rest her head on her knees, giving off a strange sort of girlish charm. She looked somewhat like a child in that position, nestled in the carved wooden chair with her arms wrapped around her calves. "What does that mean?"

"It's… the title to one of the poems. It means something like, 'Leave Me a Place Underground'." Fenris shook his head. "I can read it, but it is difficult to translate to your language. There are… certain nuances that do not completely carry over, I'm afraid."

Her face fell. "That's a pity. Poetry sounds much more interesting than what I had lined up for the lesson today. I don't suppose you want to go over common adjectives again? Or verb forms?"

His fingers fidgeted over the book. A sense of impending dread curled in his stomach when she started looking at the mess of papers on the table again. There was a certain desire within him to keep her from noticing the translated verses that sat within hand's reach. "Well, perhaps I can…" he glanced at the poem. It was one of the more tame writings in the book. He actually liked it, to be honest. There was emotion in it, but almost nothing that hinted at the deeper pools of feeling that should, in his opinion, remain hidden within the mind of the author. "I can read it to you in Arcanum…?" his voice trailed off in a quiet inquiry.

Hawke smiled. He could almost share her relief. While he hungered for the knowledge that the woman offered, he did get tired of rehashing the same tired lessons each day. Even though he really did need the repetition.

She wrapped her arms around her knees. "That sounds grand. Will you translate it for me someday?"

That earned a wry smile. "Perhaps."

The next quarter hour passed with Fenris bent over the poem, teasing the meaning from each line in its entirety before reciting the words in Arcanum it for the champion, his voice alternating between halting murmurs and confident delivery. For her part, Hawke was mesmerized. There was no way she could understand what was being said, but every now and then she heard a word that was tantalizing in its similarities to her native tongue. Despite his tendency to stutter over some of the longer words and his lower pitched tone, the poem was beautiful. Distracting. So much so, that she didn't notice the faint color that spread across his cheekbones.

She did notice when his voice faltered to a stop.

"Aber was kann ich schon mit meiner erbärmlichen Leidenschaft tun…?"

"What was that?" She asked, turning the stopper from the uncorked ink bottle over in her fingers. The spongy cork was still wet. A thin dribble of ink lined down her fingers and soaked into the clean paper that had been sitting before Fenris before he'd started reading.

"Hard to translate," Fenris said in a short tone. "I… I'm getting a headache, is all."

The woman dropped the ink stopper. It rolled across the layer of papers, coming to rest squarely on the lines of the first poem Fenris had been working on. Green eyes tracked its progress, but Hawke hadn't seemed to notice yet, too intent on the elf's discomfort. "How long have you been at it today?"

Fenris blinked. "Er…a… while." He muttered. He leaned over, ostensibly to pluck the cork from the table. Hawke seemed to swallow when his shadow fell over her, cutting the light from the window from her view. She turned her face away just in time to see his hand crumple the paper around the cork like some absurd shell.

"What-?"

He straightened, clutching the poem. "Just a mistake."

"You shouldn't worry so much about little errors. We all make them."

That earned a scowl. His shoulders tensed and his back curved into a sullen slouch. He did not reply, only flexed one hand over the ball of paper, glaring at the inkstains that adorned his fingers. Strange, a small part of his mind mused, the ink covered his lyrium tattoos as much as his skin, blurring the edges enough that they could almost remain unseen. Like they could be the skin of a normal elf.

Few more words could be drawn from him that day. Hawke seemed to sense as much though she couldn't seem to fathom the reason for it. He'd closed the book with an air of finality and his fingers were white-knuckled around the scrap of paper.

She remained long enough to be polite, though such niceties were surely lost on the elf. Eventually she gathered up her materials, bid an awkward farewell, and disappeared from his silence followed her muted footsteps.

* * *

><p>Fire crackled. Fenris stared as the flames licked the popping firewood. The poem mocked him with its uneven scrawl. He made as though to toss it into the fire, but something stayed his hand.<p>

With a rustle, it joined the other note in the box.

_Hawke._

_You inferiat me._

_Each day I write. Mor of my thoughts ar spilld on paper._

_"But what can I do with my pitiful pashins?"  
><em>

_I should burn them. But I can not._

_I only hav so mani memerees. I wonce held them all in my hed, but now they clamer for fresh err._

_Fenris_

The ink took forever to dry, but he didn't notice.

He was too busy watching the flames.


End file.
